And heels over head, from the point of a rock, He plunged, without stopping to pull off his frock. He dived very deep, but he dived all in vain, The prize he had slighted he found not again: Many times did the friar his diving renew, And deeper and deeper the river still grew. Gwenwynwyn gazed long, of his senses in doubt, To see the grey friar a diver so stout: Then sadly and slowly his castle he sought, And left the friar diving, like dabchick distraught. Gwenwynwyn fell sick with alarm and despite, Died, and went to the devil, the very same night: The magnanimous heroes he held in his pay Sacked his castle, and marched with the plunder away. No knell on the silence of midnight was rolled, For the flight of the soul of Gwenwynwyn the Bold: The brethren, unfeed, let the mighty ghost pass, Without praying a prayer, or intoning a mass. The friar haunted ever beside the dark stream; The philosopher's stone was his thought and his dream: And day after day, ever head under heels He dived all the time he could spare from his meals. He dived, and he dived, to the end of his days, As the peasants oft witnessed with fear and amaze: The mad friar's diving-place long was their theme, And no plummet can fathom that pool of the stream. And still, when light clouds on the midnight winds ride, If by moonlight you stray on the lone river-side, The ghost of the friar may be seen diving there, With head in the water, and heels in the air. ----T. L. Peacock. WILLY AND HELEN [Illustration: 9180] |Wharefore sou'd ye talk o' love, Unless it be to pain us? Wharefore sou'd ye talk o' love Whan ye say the sea maun twain us?" "It's no because my love is light, Nor for your angry deddy, It's a' to buy ye pearlins bright, An' to busk ye like a leddy." "O, Willy! I can caird an' spin, Sae ne'er can want for deeding; And, gin I ha'e my Willy's heart, I ha'e a' the pearls I'm heedin'. "Will it be time to praise this cheek, Whan years an' tears ha'e blench'd it? Will it be time to talk o' love Whan cauld an' care ha'e quench'd it?" He's laid ae han' aboot her waist, The ither's held to heaven; An' his luik was like the luik o' man Wha's heart in twa is riven. The auld laird o' Knockdon is dead, There's few for him will sorrow; For Willy's steppit in his stead, But an' his comely marrow. There's a cosy bield at yon burn fit, Wi' a bourtree at the en' o't; O, mony a day may it see yet Ere care or canker ken o't! The lily leans out owre the brae, An' the rose leans owre the lily: An' there the bonny twasome lay-- Fair Helen an' her Willy. ----Hew Ainslie. SIR ARTHUR AND LADY ANN |Sir Arthur's foot is on the sand, His boat wears in the wind; An' he's turned him to a fair foot page Who was standing him behind. "Gae hame, gae hame, my bonny boy, An' glad your mither's e'e;